Page 16

No.
Her stomach twisted. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She was flushed, aching, her head still active from Nash’s proximity, the way he filled space without even trying. He hadn’t said a word since their earlier exchange, just watched her work like she was some kind of miracle and not the glitching mess she was rapidly becoming.
She couldn’t take it anymore. “Leave,” she said quietly, not looking up.
He didn’t move. “What?”
“Just go,” she said, sharper now. “There’s nothing else for you to do here.”
A pause. Then, gently, “Grace… what’s wrong?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t break down again. Not here. Not in front of him. Not when the only thing that had kept her standing was her unyielding competence.
It was all too much. The glitching system. The unfinished code. The ache in her spine from sitting too long in too much silence while he was too close. The scent of him still in the air, the warm leather and cedar making her pulse jump.
He waited a beat longer. Then left, the door clicking softly behind him.
She retreated into systems. Always had. Code was clean. Code didn’t need her to be charming or desirable or whole. It just needed precision. But her precision was bleeding out, error by error, distraction by distraction, and that terrified her more than anything.
She caught her ride alone. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at the driver. Just stared out the window as the city lights blurred past, the world too loud, her thoughts too sharp.
By the time she reached the hotel, she was trembling. Her throat burned. Her fingers curled tightly around the keycard like it could anchor her.
Inside, she stripped off her clothes and walked straight into the shower. She turned the water up, scalding and scrubbed hard, dragging soap down her arms, across her chest, behind her neck. It didn’t help. She could still smell him. She pressed her forehead to the tile and exhaled a broken breath.
I can’t do this.
She wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out, steam curling behind her like the ghost of her former control. She collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor, knees up, arms wrapped around her shins.
Her bubble had failed.
Nash Rahim had broken through it with a single look, a single scent, a single fucking collision. She couldn’t get it back. Not the stillness. Not the clarity.
Her chest heaved with something primal and suffocating, fear.This is what happens when I get close. This is what happens when I think I can be seen and still survive.
She rose on shaking legs. Dried off. Threw on jeans and a long-sleeve tee without even looking in the mirror. No moisturizer. No toner. No symmetry. No breath.
She yanked her suitcase out of the closet and began shoving clothes inside. No folding. No order. Just flight. Escape. Retreat. Back to exile. Back to silence. Back to where no one could see the seams where she still hadn’t healed.
A knock. Her spine snapped straight. She froze. Not the door to the hallway. The connecting door. She didn’t answer. Another knock.
“Grace?”
His voice. Rougher now. Tired.Soft.
She crossed the room with hesitant steps. Opened the door.
Nash stood there, hair so damn dark, shirt molding to his chest, that kinetic, predatory energy still coiled tight beneath his surface. He looked past her.
Saw the suitcase on the bed.
“You’re leaving?” His brow furrowed. “You’re serious?”
She nodded. Couldn’t speak. He was too close. The air filled with him again. Leather, spice, heat. Her bubble shuddered again. This time with a soundless scream inside her.
“You can do this job, Grace.” His voice was rough. Fierce. “I’ve seen your brain at work. You’ve got the skill.”
She flinched.There it was. The test.The assumption that it was about competence. That she was snapping because she wasn’t good enough.